


Wonderful

by Dallas Genoard (Kankri)



Series: Remembered Well [1]
Category: Baccano!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kankri/pseuds/Dallas%20Genoard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ Canon - verse, with a twist on canon events.  Eventual Dallas / Luck. Various other hinted pairings. ]</p><p>The darkness washes over him.  Nothing.  Peaceful.  He feels the cold in his fingers first, and consciousness spreads.  His heart begins racing in his chest again, but his mind is drawing on a blank.  He can't find it in himself to focus on anything.  The analogy makes his stomach twist, but his thoughts are swimming just out of reach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonderful

[ **????, 1931** ]

Drowning is such an odd phenomenon. Could it be called that? Did he _give a shit_? Dallas Genoard had bigger things to worry about, and he didn't really care how strange a process he was committed to. He did, however, often allow his mind to graze over how misunderstood his plight was.

From watching some old black and white flick, anyone could make a simple evaluation: drowning consisted of quite simply a few moments of panic, and struggling to hold one's breath for a minute or two. The trepidation would cease once the ability to continue holding your breath ended and you blacked out.

The whole course of action was there and gone before it was very well registered. Sure, it was terrible, but not _that_ terrible.

 _If only_.

The never relenting, unforgiving tension of hardened cement pressed tight against his chest.

The claustrophobia-inducing, sealed oil drum blocking any chance he had to see _something_ outside of this miserable bucket.

The pressure of being, roughly, two hundred feet underwater.

The first time, when his barrel had hit the water, he discovered that there had been several fine holes drilled into the lid which ensured that, once the cement had carried the barrel underneath the surface toward the murky bottom, the water would drizzle down in rivulets, at a slow but nonetheless menacing and relentless pace. It was up to his chest within half a minute, and his hyperventilating hadn't done wonders on his tightly-kept ribcage. His hands, bound near his chest at the wrists so tightly he couldn't feel his fingers anymore, were still feeling enough to burn and sting at the icy bite of the water. He was starting to feel dizzy from his dyspnea.

It's under his chin. Algae, fish, minerals. A faint tinge of metal, almost like blood but closer to a fistful of pennies. Oh God.

Now it was in his mouth. Sloshing at his nose. The smell is _rancid_ , positively horrible. He jerks his head back, gasps, desperately attempting to get some air. He gets a mouthful of water from above, and wretches, dry-heaving before going into a coughing fit. And then it's in his eyes, burning his nostrils, and snaking its way down his throat. The instinct to cough up the water and replace it with air was, really, his downfall – several more mouthfuls of water are going down into his lungs, burning his esophagus on the way down with the frigid chill.

As a direct response, his heart kicks into overdrive, trying to accommodate for the adrenaline rush accompanying his frenzied state, and urgent need to push oxygen to the brain. Soon, he's coughing and inhaling water only to choke on it, then gag it back up to no avail. His already-fuzzy vision begins to darken, and he isn't sure how much longer he's forced to recognize the burn in his chest as his lungs scream for any relief before he blacks out.

The lull between life and death is an odd phenomenon. That was definitely a good word for it. It consumed his very conscious, but it wasn't exactly what he thought it would be. Once again, misled by the Hollywood big screens.  They always said they see themselves dying, or they see a bright light at the end of a long tunnel, or something that made it sound a dramatic, _conscious_ sort of thing. Anything to make things _interesting_.

The reality was much different. And he wasn't sure if it was better, or worse.

At least, if something like the movie stars explained happened, he could believe that maybe Eve was right.

If that was bound to happen, it wouldn't be anytime soon.  All he saw was the water, growing a shade darker every passing second.  It seemed to grow a sort of sentience, crushing down on him harder, making his chest hurt more than it already did, and every muscle in his back and shoulders screamed with the effort of trying to breathe all this time.  What had it been, five minutes now or somewhere abouts ...

Everything was fuzzy, and dark, and despite his struggle, a wash of calm came down over him.  Finally.   _Finally_ , he could rest.  He could done with all of this.  He isn't sure if he closed his eyes, or if his vision just went entirely black, but no sooner did he feel a sort of release he'd never experienced before.  Everything had gone from being, to simply ... not.

_" Dallas. "_

_" Yes, little Eve? "_

_" Dallas, you have to wake up. "_

_" ... What? "_

_" Please.  You have to wake up, for me. "_

His head jerks back as his eyes open, only to be stung by ... water.  The calm that he had felt minutes before – or had it been a shorter time than that? – was instantly gone as he became consciously aware of himself coming around again.  Even though he knew it would do him no good, he began to panic all over again.

This should be, virtually, impossible.  He should be _dead_ by now, or at least unconscious, and he should _stay that way_ but he's _**not**_ , and somehow, that thought alone is scarier than the fact he will be stuck here for God knows how long, a few playing cards swimming around in the stagnant water that he would be forced to swallow, and breathe, so many times over.

What was it about the elixir that made this sort of thing possible?  Recovering from a bullet was one thing, it only required mending of broken nerves and tissue, and then the brain sort of just ... went back to commanding the heart to pump, and – whatever weird things happened to make breathing happen.  That made a lot of sense, and so when he'd come back from that, it hadn't startled him at all.  The brain needed oxygen to function, though.  There was none down here.   _How_.  How how _how_ _ **how**_.

His lungs are burning anew, and he realizes it will never be better.  He has to endure it like it's the first time _every time_ , and it's never going to stop.  He wonders if he could possibly speed up the process, breathe harder and let more of the carious water into his lungs, and effectively shut his brain down sooner.  It would be worth the efforts.  At least he could gain those few moments of nothingness.

He doesn't panic as much, recuperating after the sixth time.  Or maybe it was the twentieth.  Who was keeping count.  That would only make things worse, in a depressing sort of way.  He wasn't prepared to make his trek any harder.  It still hurts, and he's still scared to be down here, he's still miserable, and it never got any better, just like he thought.

But he's capable of, vaguely, rational thought.  If it isn't that, he doesn't know what to call it, but it doesn't matter.  After overcoming his earlier dread, he thought only of how – the first time, at least – he'd heard Eve.  Eve.  Poor, sweet, little Eve.  His angel, the light of his life—

—She would be worried about him.  A guy like him, burdening such a good girl like his sister.  The pitiful mess he was leaving behind, because he overestimated himself.  Once again, he was nothing but a disappointment.  Maybe Jeffery would tell her she was being stupid.  And the old man would say he had it coming, whatever happened to him, and it didn't matter.

Maybe it didn't.

The darkness washes over him.  Nothing.  Peaceful.  He feels the cold in his fingers first, and consciousness spreads.  His heart begins racing in his chest again, but his mind is drawing on a blank.  He can't find it in himself to focus on anything.  The analogy makes his stomach twist, but his thoughts are swimming just out of reach.

  
Closing his eyes against the nothingness there was to see anyway, he coughed as his stomach viciously protested to another mouthful of water.  Letting his head roll back until the tendons in his neck protested, he thought of Eve.

**Author's Note:**

> I had maybe too much fun writing this part. I hope it portrays his struggle well, as relating to him at this moment is very crucial to later upcoming chapters.


End file.
